The Cowslip Is A Country Wench.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat

And Ye, Who Have Met With Adversity's Blast, And Been Bow'd To The Earth By Its Fury; To Whom The Twelve Months, That Have Recently Pass'd Were As Harsh As A Prejudiced Jury - Still, Fill To The Future! And Join In Our Chime, The Regrets Of Remembrance To Cozen, And Having Obtained A New Trial Of Time, Shout In Hopes Of A Kindlier Dozen.

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!

A Certain Portion Of The Human Race Has Certainly A Taste For Being Diddled.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.